Eighteen
by Chomjangi
Summary: A look at the life of Darien Fawkes, 18 years into the future. Written before "The New Stuff."


Title: Eighteen  
Author: Chomjangi  
Rating: R  
Archive: Sure, just drop me a line  
Spoilers: None  
Warnings: Despite the fact that I'm always wary of Mary Sues, this story does contain a major female character of my own creation, despite the fact that she is really not the focus...well, just read it and see.  
  
Disclaimer: If I owned The Invisible Man...it wouldn't have been canceled.  
  
Eighteen  
by  
Chomjangi  
  
"We cannot be what we recall,  
Nor dare we think on what we are."  
-Lord Byron, "Stanzas for Music"  
  
  
I had watched them getting the cell ready for a week. Padding the walls   
with foam, changing the locks on the door, putting in a new camera system. I   
had heard rumors, of course, about the new prisoner... although we don't   
usually use that word. They like to pretend that everyone here is just a   
patient, as if maintaining the illusion that someday these people will walk   
away and rejoin their lives. Even they know that isn't true.  
The room sat empty for a week, and then, on a Sunday morning at three   
a.m., they brought the new prisoner in. I had stayed late that night by   
chance, staying up with a former agent who had been imprisoned in China for   
fifteen years, and had become so paranoid that the full moon sent him into a   
tizzy. I sat up with him until the moon disappeared behind the clouds, and he   
went to sleep. As I was leaving the facility, I ran into the new prisoner   
being brought in.  
For all the preparation they had put into his cell, he appeared to be   
rather harmless. He looked like he was about fifty, tall and lean and lithe   
despite his age. There was a look of terrible sadness on his face and as he   
passed me in the hall, ringed by guards, he glanced at me through a pair of   
thick glasses with a look of desperation. Then he looked away and passed down   
the hall, disappearing around the corner.  
He never crossed my mind until two days later, when Davis called me into   
his office. He was sitting at his desk, typing at his laptop, when I came in.  
"Dr. Vaughn," he said, "how are you this morning."  
"All right," I said. "Though I'm still concerned about how Mr. Gonzalez   
is adjusting to being at the facility. He seems a little preoccupied..."  
"Stop worrying," he said, "I'm transferring Gonzalez to Dr. Richards.   
You're off the case."  
I stared at me shoes for a moment, trying to contain my anger.  
"Sir, if I've done anything wrong..."  
"I'm giving you the new patient," he said. "The rest of your patients   
will be distributed among the staff. I need you to be working on this guy   
full time."  
He finally looked up from his computer.  
"You look surprised," he noted.  
"I just had the impression that this was a major case," I explained.  
"It is a major case," he said. "Possibly the most important patient we've   
ever had here."  
"Then why me," I said, "I don't have that much experience, I'm young, I'm   
not the typical agent..."  
"Because you don't have much experience," he said. "Because you're young.   
Because your not the typical CIA agent."  
"Is he here for interrogation?" I asked.  
He shook his head. "Not yet. Not for a couple of years. We need to   
stabilize him emotionally first. That's your job." He slid a file across the   
desk. "You'll be working with a team. Chemists, neurologists, etc. But you're   
in charge."  
I opened the file.  
"He's a former intelligence operative," Davis said, "he worked for a   
small Cold War relic for a couple of years in the early part of the   
millennium, but they lost control of him and he was transferred to the SWRB."  
"Lost control...?"  
"This guy," Davis said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "wasn't your   
typical agent. He was more like a weapon. The SWRB have been using him for   
the past eighteen years, doing God knows what to him. Then last week he   
snapped, killed one of his keepers, put another guy in permeant traction. So   
they took him away from them, and gave him to us to put back together."  
"What's so special about him?" I asked.  
Davis gave me a wry grin.  
"He can turn invisible," he said.  
For a moment I stared at him, before bursting into laughter.  
"Go see for yourself," he said, shaking his head, "if you don't believe   
me."  
"I guess I should," I said, standing to excuse myself. I turned to go out   
the door. "So what's this guys name?"  
"Fawkes," Davis said, winking at me, "Darien Fawkes."   
  
The cell they had put Darien Fawkes into could be looked into from a   
control room where two agents monitored him at all times. They were both   
waiting for me when I came down.  
"You want us to go in first," one of them suggested. "We should probably   
sedate him."  
"If you think that's best," I said. The two agents nodded.  
While they secured the patient I leafed through the file that Davis had   
given me.  
Darien Fawkes. Small time thief turned secret weapon with the ability to turn   
invisible. The file was woefully out of date; it seemed to be an old CIA file   
from when he worked at a place called The Agency. It had most of the medical   
information on the gland, a few basic descriptions of his early missions and   
then, abruptly, the file stopped in May, 2002. There was nothing after that;   
no records from the SWRB, no descriptions of any violent incidents. Eighteen   
years of blank space.  
"Eighteen years," I said out loud, as the two agents came back into the   
control room carrying an empty syringe.  
"Has he been acting violent?" I asked.  
"Not this morning," the second one said, "but last night he practically   
ripped my arm off. But then Doctor Marcus came and gave him his shot and he   
calmed down."  
Dr. Daniel Marcus, the neurologist assigned to Darien Fawkes. I could   
only assume that he had been given enough warning to manufacture the   
"conteragent" mentioned in the file. That comforted me a little.  
With the agents standing guard behind me, I walked into the room.  
Darien Fawkes didn't stir, even as the door clicked shut behind me and   
locked in place. The pictures in file bore no resemblance to the man sitting,   
like a limp rag doll, against the wall of his padded cell. He looked more   
like a skeleton then a man, his grey hair hanging over his eyes. I took a   
step toward him, and then another, and with the third step he finally opened   
one eye and looked at me.  
"Where am I?"  
His voice was low and gravelly, as if he hadn't spoken for a long time.  
"You're in a CIA physciatric facility," I said. "My name is Diane Vaughn.   
I'm going to be your physciatrist, Mr. Fawkes."  
"No," he said.  
"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you."  
"No," he said again. "Tell them to send someone else. Send a man."  
"You don't think I'm competant to be your physciatrist."  
"Get out of here," he said, "tell them I won't talk to you."  
I glanced back at the mirrored panel on the far wall, where the two   
agents were watching. Fawkes still didn't make a move.  
"Fine," I said. "You don't have to talk to me."  
I walked to the opposite side of the room and sat down against the padded   
wall, clutching the file to my chest.  
We must have sat there for two hours before he spoke again.  
"At the SWRB," he said, slowly, "they sent me a physciatrist too."  
"Did you talk to him?"  
He grew silent. "I crushed his throat in my bare hands, and ripped his   
head off of his body," he said, after a while. He looked up at me. "That   
wasn't in my file, was it, doctor?"  
"You're trying to scare me," I said. "It won't work."  
He went back to looking at his feet.   
After a few minutes I tried again.  
"Nothing about your work in the SWRB was in your file," I said. "Would   
you like to tell me about what you did for them?"  
He brushed a hand through his hair and looked at me again. "I killed   
people," he said.  
"Ok," I said, "what else did you do."  
"That was it," he said. "I sat in a room, like this one, while they let   
me get close to Quicksilver madness. Then they came and told me who I was   
going to kill and how I was going to kill them. They let me go. I got the   
target. Then I went back to the room."  
"They let you go," I said. "Why didn't you just leave after you got the   
target?"  
"They had the counteragent," he said, softly, "If I hadn't gone back, I   
would have..." He trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.  
"You were never caught," I observed.  
"Of course not," he said, "I could do this."   
As his words trailed off a trickle of silverly liquid, almost like   
mercury, trailed down his forehead. Within seconds, the liquid seemed to   
enclose him and then suddenly, he was gone, and I was staring at a wall.  
"Boo," he said, and with a sound like a soft shattering of glass, he   
appeared in the same place he had sat before. "You look surprised," he said.   
"I guess that wasn't in my file either."   
  
The morning after my first meeting with Darien Fawkes, I came in and found   
Daniel Marcus waiting for me outside the door to Darien's room. Marcus was   
his medical doctor, a general practitioner who specialized in neurology.  
"I've been waiting for you," he said, "I have something you should see."  
We went into his office and pulled a large stack of polaroid photos from   
his filing cabinet. He handed them to me, watching as I sifted through them.  
"I gave Darien Fawkes a complete medical workup yesterday," he said, as I   
continued through with the picture, "while he was sedated, of course. I   
thought you might want to see what I found, so I took pictures."  
The polaroids, about twenty of them, were close-ups of various parts of   
Darien's body, parts that had been hidden from me in my initial interview   
with him. The first few shots were close up of heavily scarred tissue across   
both wrists, and continuing up along the arms. The next series were of   
several fine scars across his throat; the next, several puncture wounds just   
below the ribs cage. Some of the scarring was very old; some more recent.   
They were all horrific.  
"Now I'm not a physciatrist," Marcus said, "but that doesn't look like   
torture to me."   
"They look self inflicted," I said, "they look like suicide attempts."  
"Well, that's your job. I just thought you would be interested."  
"How was he otherwise?"  
"As well as can be expected, considering that he's had a biosynthetic   
gland grafted to the back of his brain for the past twenty years. Slightly   
underwieght. High blood pressure. Some indication of liver damage, probably   
from the conteragent." He shrugged.   
"Can I keep these photographs?" I asked.  
  
Darien was standing at the far end of the room when I came in, adjusting   
his glasses. "They didn't sedate me this time," he said, "they didn't put me   
in a straightjacket."  
"Our meeting are based on trust," I said, "I don't believe you're going   
to hurt me."  
"That's a dangerous assumption," he said. "Besides, I told you I wanted   
to see a different pyschiatrist. A man."  
"Well," I said, "you're out of luck." I took the stack of Polaroids out   
of my pockets and walked across the room to hand them to him. He started to   
withdraw at me approach. "While you were unconcious yesterday, you were   
examined by a medical doctor. He took these pictures."  
"Wow," he said, looking at them, "just when I've thought they've run out   
of ways to violate me, they start taking pictures of me while I'm unconcious   
and naked. Wow."  
"These scars," I said, "Did the SWRB do this to you."  
"No," he said, calmly.  
"Did you do this to yourself?"  
"Not all at once," he said, handing me back the stack of photographs,   
"Eighteen years is a long time."  
"When you hurt yourself, were you quicksilver mad?"  
"Never."  
"Then why?" I asked. He shrugged.  
"Why do you think?"  
"I think these are suicide attempts," I said.  
"Yup," he said, "and ever time they would get to me at the last second,   
bring me back from the edge. They'd patch me up, take away my books and in a   
month I'd be back to my old tricks."  
"You wanted to die," I said softly. He walked across the room, stopping   
in front of the mirrored panel behind which the guards were standing.  
"Have you ever killed anyone, Dr. Vaughn?"  
"No."  
"I have," he said, softly, "I've lost count of how many people I've   
killed. Some of them were bad men, men who deserved it. But most of them were   
good men and women, people who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong   
time, or posed a threat to the SWRB." He stopped and turned, facing me. "I   
remember the name of every man, woman and child that I killed. I remember the   
look on every one of their faces. I wake up every morning and that's what I   
see. And I know that, every time I go quicksilver mad, I run the risk of   
doing that to another human being. Don't tell me that you wouldn't want to   
end it too."  
"What about now," I said, "you're going to get better. Your out of the   
SWRB. You don't have to hurt anyone ever again."  
"I've hurt enough people already!" he snapped.  
I walked over to him and laid a hand on his sholder. He jerked away from   
the contact, as if he had been wounded by my touch.  
"If you cared about me," he continued, softly, "you would let me put   
myself out of my misery."   
"I can't do that," I said. "I won't do that. I have faith in you, even if   
you don't have any in yourself."  
I left him standing at the panel, staring into his own reflection.  
"This is the last time," he said, as I went to leave. "I won't talk to   
you again. Send a man to talk to me next time."  
  
True to his word, Darien Fawkes didn't say a word to me for the next four   
days. I sat their anyway, watching him, observing his behaviors, and he   
watched me in the same way. Occaisionally, I would ask him questions,   
questions that he would answer with little more than a raised eyebrow.  
"Why do you not wish to speak to me Mr. Fawkes? Is it because I'm a   
woman? Do you think that a woman isn't capable of understanding you?"  
"Are there some sexual issues you feel uncomfortable discussing with me?   
Are you afraid of hurting me? Do you have any strong feelings toward your   
mother?"  
Day four. My constant questioning provokes a response.  
"Do I remind you of someone?"  
He had been staring at his shoes, idly lacing them and unlacing them,   
when suddenly he looked up and then, as if trying to mask his suprise, looked   
away.  
"Who is she?" I asked. "Who do I remind you of."  
He shrugged and started to stand.  
"I need a dose of counteragent," he said. "I used to have a tatoo, here   
on my arm, that let me know when I was getting close. Those bastards at the   
SWRB took it off. That way I never knew how close I was, never could keep   
track of time."  
"You think you need it now?" I asked.  
"I can feel it coming," he said, "you better get some soon."  
"Why," I said, getting up and walking towards him, "what will happen."  
"I could hurt you," he said, "I could do terrible things to you."  
"Is that what happened to her?" I asked. "Is that why you don't like me   
in here with you?"  
"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied.  
"That's why I bother you," I said, taking another step towards him, "I   
remind you of someone. Who was she."  
"Leave me alone," he said, pushing me to one side.  
"Was she a girlfriend?" I asked. "Was she one of your targets."  
"I can feel it coming," he said, "just get out of here."  
His last words trailed off into a cry of pain as he crumbled onto the   
floor, clutching at the back of his neck. Dropping to my knees I crawled   
towards him, and layed a hand on his hip.  
"Darien," I whispered, "are you alright?"  
Before I could realize what was happening he had shot upwards and pinned   
me against the floor, with far more strength then I would have anticipated in   
a man of his age. His face loomed just above mine, red, bloodshot eyes   
glaring at me processly as one of his knees pushed between my thighs.  
"You want to know what I did to her....oh baby, I'll show you what I did   
to her."  
Just as I was about to respond he was pulled backwards suddenly, back   
into the arms of the two guards who had been watching the scene unfold from   
the safety of the adjacent room. It took both of them to hold him down, as   
the taller of the two uncorked a syringe of blue liquid and injected it into   
his neck. As the plunger was depressed his eyes closed, and his body seemed   
to go limp. Then they let him fall to the floor and helped me up to my feet.  
"Are you alright," one of them asked. I don't remember what I said in   
return.  
  
It was late afternoon by the time I finished reporting the attack to   
Davis and made my way back to Darien's cell. He had awakened from his   
quicksilver induced sleep and was sitting in the far back corner of the room,   
trying to make himself as small as possible. When I came into the room he   
looked up at me, and then let his head fall again. His cheeks were stained   
with tears.  
"Her name was Claire," he said, without prompting. "She was my keeper at   
the first place I worked for, at the agency. They didn't use me there, like   
the SWRB did, they let me work on cases, live in my own apartment, that sort   
of thing. Anyway, this woman, Claire, she and my partner Bobby were the only   
real friends I had there, the only people I've ever really been close to, and   
then..."  
He voice dropped of, into a whisper, as he continued. "They decided that   
they were going to let me have a gun. They thought that I would be able to   
control everything, that the Quicksilver madness was under control. On my   
first mission everything was fine. And then on the second, I lost it on the   
way back to The Agency. We got into the parking lot and I pulled out the   
gun." He stopped, choking back a sob. "I shot him..my partner, Bobby. Maybe   
three of four times. Then I went inside. I found Claire, she was alone in the   
basement. She didn't even hear me come in. And then I..." he stopped again,   
and was quiet for a long time.  
"She was so quiet," he said, finally. "Even when I was...hurting her...   
she never screamed, never asked me to stop. She just lay there and cried the   
whole time, cried but never made a sound. After I was done I just started   
smashign things, ripping apart the whole room, and even though she knew I was   
probably planning to come back and kill her she never even got up off the   
floor. She didn't even get up and try and get to the counteragent. She just   
lay there on the floor, half naked, and watched me destroy her life's work."  
"Then what happened?" I asked.  
He choked back another sob. "I don't remember. Some guards must have   
found Bobby because they came in and held me down while they gave me the   
counteragent. Then they sedated me and dragged me into the padded room. I was   
there for a long time; the Official, he was my boss, came in at some point   
and told me that Bobby was alive. I don't know how long I was there, but   
eventually someone came in and sedated me again, and when I woke up I was at   
the SWRB." He looked at me, and wiped a tear from his eyes. "You look like   
Claire," he said. "Not exactly. But the hair, the eyes. There's a   
resemblance."  
"Did you ever see them again?"  
He shook his head, violently. "Why would they want to see me? You don't   
forgive things like that. That's why they sent me to the SWRB. Because I   
destroy everything and everybody around me. That's why..." he looked at   
again, plaintively. "Thats why I just want to end this...that's why I just   
want to die."  
  
In two months, Darien Fawkes gained thirty pounds. His nightmares were   
almost eliminated; and with a healthy dose of Prozac, he almost seemed to be   
happy, as happy as anyone could be whose life was confined to a single cell.   
In between session he read, every sort of book he could get his hands on, as   
if he were making up for lost time.  
But for all the gains he had made, the demons that had driven him here   
would still not let him go. We began to excise them, one by one, starting   
with the most recent; the orderly that he had killed at the SWRB. I pulled   
the details from him, one by one, until he finally collapsed in a fit of   
tears. He had been Quicksilver mad. He had lost all control. Anyone could see   
that it wasn't his fault.   
We worked through the deaths of each of his targets; he remembered every   
one with startling accuracy. Their names and background information; the   
reason they were being eliminated, all the data on the tip of his tongue, as   
if he had been reliving each death over the past eighteen years.   
He could, when I forced him, talk about the people he had killed. But it   
took months to get him to talk about his last days at The Agency again.   
"Do you still think about them?" I asked him, point blank, about four   
months after he became my patient.  
"Who?" he asked.  
"Claire," I said, "and Bobby."  
He turned away, looking at the wall. "Every day," he said, finally.   
"They're the first thing I think of every morning. The last thing I think of   
every night. I replay that day over in my mind again and again as if it were   
yesterday."  
"Do you ever think about seeing them again? Talking to them again?"  
"They wouldn't talk to me," he said, "I shot him. I nearly killed him."  
"You don't think he would be able to forgive that?"  
"Even still..." he trailed off, trying to pull himself together. "He   
would never be able to forgive what I did to her. Bobby loved her...he   
couldn't, he wouldn't forgive me."  
"It's been eighteen years," I said. "It's a long process, but women are   
able to come to terms with rape. And they both know it wasn't your fault."  
"You're wrong," he said, straggling to his feet. "I was. I shouldn't have   
let myself go that far, I shouldn't have let them give me the gun, I should   
have..."   
He crumpled to the floor. A sat down next to him and ran my hands through   
his hair, and after a while he stopped crying.  
  
Perhaps it was my desire to help Darien; or perhaps it was my own   
perverse curiosity. But that afternoon I logged on to our server and ran a   
search for Bobby Hobbes.  
At first I limited it to a search of The Agency, which, since Darien's   
time, had grown to become a major player on the west-coast intelligence   
scene. When there were no hits there, I ran a general search of all   
intelligence agencies: still nothing. I continued expanding, until I had   
combed through ever database in the country; Bobby Hobbes didn't, and   
apparently hadn't ever existed.  
I didn't have Claire's last name, but Darien I mentioned her Keeper   
identification numbers in one of our sessions. Again, I hit a brick wall.   
Nowhere in our databases was a Keeper, past or present, with that   
identification number.  
For the first time in the four months I had been treating him, I began to   
distrust Darien Fawkes. If he was lying, then he was doing a damn good job of   
it; and since he didn't appear to have a motive for his tale, I couldn't make   
heads nor tales of it. That night I checked on him before I went home; he was   
sleeping on his cot, his face contorted by some unknown phantoms chasing him   
through his dreams.  
The next morning, Davis stopped me in the hallway on the way to Darien's   
room.  
"Who have you been pissing off?" he asked.  
"No one, to my knowledge," I said. "Why?"  
"Some bigwigs from San Diego are in my office," he said, "and boy are   
they pissed."  
A middle-aged woman, looking severe in a black-pinstrip pantsuit which   
offset her mane of greying red hair, was sitting in the chair across from   
Davis' desk, looking like someone had just run over her pet poodle. Behind   
her, looking as if he was trying to hide behind the plant in the corner, was   
another man, perhaps a little older than she was, and almost completely bald.  
The woman stood as I came in the room, offering her hand with a certain   
ferocity.  
"Alexandra Monroe, The Agency," she said, withdrawing her hand just as   
abruptly, "this is Mr. Eberts, my assistant."  
"What can we do for you, Ms. Monroe," Davis asked, with a forced   
politeness.  
"Actually," she said, turning and looking at me sharply, "I was hoping   
that we could speak with Dr. Vaughn alone."  
I don't know who this woman was, but she must have had connections,   
because Davis, without a word, turned and walked out of the room, leaving me   
alone with a woman who looked as if she had killed before, and would not be   
afraid to do it again.  
"You are Dr. Diane Vaughn?" she asked, curtly.  
"Yes," I answered.  
"Your access code is 2049378918274?"   
"Yes."  
Her assistant, Eberts, handed her a slip of paper. "Last night at 5:14   
E.S.T you ran a search over multiple databases for a man named Bobby Hobbes."  
"Yes," I said, "is that important?"  
"It was important enough for me to fly halfway across the country   
yesterday afternoon," she snapped. She looked back at the paper and   
continued. "You also ran a search on a Keeper identification number."  
"Yes, I did," I said again.  
"Why?"   
Her eyes met mine and for a moment we seemed locked together in a battle   
of cosmic proportions. "I'm afraid that's confidential," I said, after a   
moment.  
Eberts handed her another document. It was a supeona.  
"Perhaps now you'll be willing to tell us the reasoning behind your   
search."  
"I still can't," I said, "I'm afraid that's still covered by   
doctor-patient privilege."  
At that she raised an eyebrow. "The search of this data was related to a   
patient?"   
"Yes," I answered.  
"What patient?"  
"I'm afraid," I said, "that that is classified, as is all information   
related to the patients at this facility."  
Eberts started to hand her another document, but I interrupted the   
process. "I don't care who that supeona is from," I said, "you can't just   
demand CIA files and get your way."  
Alexandra Monroe had obviously never been told 'no' before. With a well   
placed glare in my direction she marched out of the office, Eberts trailing   
behind her.   
  
Monroe's questions had made me wonder if maybe there was more to this   
story then Darien had told me; perhaps even more than he knew of. In any case   
I didn't tell him about Monroe and Eberts, or about that fact that neither   
Claire nor Bobby seemed to exist according to the United States Government.   
After a routine session I decided to make it an early day and finish up my   
paperwork at home.  
I was just about to step into my car when I realized that someone had   
come up behind me, making his presence known by coughing a little under his   
breath until I turned around. It was the man who had accompanied Alexandra   
Monroe that morning, Eberts.  
"What does she want now?" I asked, tossing my purse into the back of my   
car.  
"She doesn't know I'm here," he said, almost whispering. "If she did, she   
would have me killed."  
Something about the sincerity of his face, or the tremble in his voice,   
made me stop and look at him again. He shifted uneasily under my gaze.  
"What do you want?"  
"It's about your patient," he said, "I need to know who it is."  
"Why," I said, "what business of it is yours?"  
"Just answer me one question," he said, taking a step towards me. "Is it   
Darien Fawkes?"  
I hope that I concealed the look of surprise that must have been   
reflected on my face. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said.  
"I knew him," he said, "I knew him at The Agency. Is he all right?"  
He looked genuinely concerned, but I couldn't help but be suspicious.  
"Why should I give you any information?" I asked.  
"Because," he said, "I know what happened to Bobby Hobbes."  
"You first," I said.  
"Not here," he said. "She has spies everywhere. We'll meet tomorrow, and   
I'll tell you everything I know, about Darien, about Bobby, and about Claire,   
even if it kills me."  
  
There was a small park across from my house where a couple of swings and   
a slide entertained children during the summer. Agent Eberts was sitting on   
one of those swings, pushing himself back and forth, when I met him the next   
morning.  
"I'm supposed to be hacking into your computer systems right now," he   
said, "if she knew I was here, she'd kill me herself."  
"What are you going to tell her?" I asked, sitting next to him on of the   
swings.  
"That I broke in successfully and found out your patient was a man named   
Luke Lawson."  
"Who's he?"  
"An old friend who would have known about Bobby and Claire. She trusts   
me. She won't bother looking him up," he glanced around nervously. "If she   
finds out that Darien is alive, she'll get him back to The Agency, by any   
means necessary."  
"Thank you," I said, softly.  
"Okay," he said, "you first."  
"Well," I said, "Darien is doing all right, considering. He's physically   
all right, but still struggling with a lot of guilt."  
"Those bastards at the SWRB used him as an assassin, didn't they?" he   
said.   
"Good guess."  
"That's what Ms. Monroe, if she got him."  
"She seems pretty worked up. Why did she fly all the way out here to   
question me about that search?"  
"It's...complicated," Eberts said.  
"Try me."  
"She thinks you might have information relevant to the investigation   
of...well," he stopped himself, "maybe I should start at the beginning. What   
did Darien tell you?"  
I repeated everything Darien had told me, knowing that, if this man   
betrayed me, the consequences could be devastating.  
He nodded in silence when I finished. Then, with a long sigh, he started   
to speak. "Alex was the one who found Bobby. She carried him inside herself,   
thinking that someone had nabbed Darien and he had been caught in the   
crossfire. I met her in the inside hallway and we got him downstairs to the   
lab and that's when we saw..." he paused, taking another long pause. "It was   
over by the time we got there. Darien was ripping the lab apart and Claire   
was just...lying there. The guards took down Darien while Alex took another   
team and transported Hobbes to a nearby hospital. I stayed with Claire. She   
was...well, she was traumatized. I stayed with her through the night.   
"The next morning they shut down the lab, and I took Claire home. Hobbes   
was doing better, and we went and visited him later with Alex. Darien had   
missed most of his vital organs, thank God, and he was awake by that   
afternoon. We were all their that night when The Official came by.  
"He told us that...that Darien had been injured as he was being   
transported into a padded room, that he had been shot and killed instantly.   
It was like we had stepped into a nightmare. He was gone, Bobby was barely   
able to sit up, Claire was..."  
He broke off for a moment, wiping a stray tear away from his eye, before   
he continued.  
"The Agency was shut down for about two weeks. Alex took over the duty of   
being the only active agent, while Claire nursed Bobby back to health. They   
became very close...I guess we all did, as we mourned Darien's loss. I didn't   
think things could get any worse. And then..."  
"And what?"  
He took a deep breath. "I was in The Official's office when they came in.   
Bobby had just started walking again, and he was limping along with Claire's   
help. It was obvious that she had been crying. They sat down and the   
Claire...she told us that she was...she was..."  
"That she was what?"  
"She was pregnant," Eberts said, "with Darien's child."  
"She was sure?" I asked, slightly taken aback.  
"We had her examined by a doctor, just in case," Eberts said. "We were   
sure."  
I sat in silence for a moment, thinking about Darien.  
"What did she do?" I asked, finally.  
"We let her be, for a time," Eberts said. "We all thought we knew what   
she would do. I mean, we couldn't imagine that she would want to go through   
with having that baby. So we were all surprised when she told us that she   
planned to keep it."  
"It must have been a difficult decision for her."  
"I don't think it was. It was almost as if the events that led to her   
pregnancy meant nothing; all that mattered to her was that she was pregnant   
with the baby of a man that she had come to care for very deeply. Maybe she   
was afraid it was her last chance at motherhood. Maybe she thought that she   
was honoring Darien in his death. Forgiving him. But for whatever the reason,   
she wanted to have that baby."  
"Did she?" I asked.  
Eberts sighed, and continued. "The Official called her into his office   
the morning after she had made her decision, and told her it was no longer   
her decision; that since the Quicksilver gland was the property of The   
Agency, and the Quicksilver gland had been in Darien, then Darien had been   
the property of The Agency, and therefore his child was their property to.   
And he wanted the pregnancy terminated. Immediately."  
"Why?"  
"You have to understand," he said, "this was not a normal child, and this   
was not a normal woman. Who knows what sort of deformities that child may   
have had; who knows sort have risk would have been placed on Claire's life by   
carrying to term. You have to remember that with Darien gone, Claire was the   
last person The Agency had with any knowledge of the Quicksilver Gland, and   
if her life was compromised it would destroy any chances of recreating the   
gland. And even if the child was carried to term, it would have become a pawn   
in a far reaching conspiracy. Who knows how that child could have been used   
against Claire, or against The Agency as a whole. At least, that's what The   
Official felt."  
"Did you agree with him?"  
"No," Eberts admitted. "But what could I say? Even Alex, a mother who had   
had her child stolen from here, wanted her to terminate the pregnancy. And   
Bobby...well, Bobby could forgive Darien for shooting him, but not for what   
he had done to Claire. Even though his physical wounds had healed, he   
couldn't stand the thought of her carrying his child. That was what he said,   
anyway, but then..."  
Eberts stopped, a far off look in his eye.  
"That morning," he continued, "when he told her that her pregnancy would   
be terminated, immediately, as a matter of national security, she went into a   
rage. She got out of the building before the guards could stop her. The   
Official knew that Bobby wanted her, and didn't want her to have that baby.   
And he knew that Bobby was the only one who she would listen to. So he sent   
Hobbes after her.  
"We sat in the office, me, Alex, The Official, and the doctor he had   
asked to complete the 'procedure'. We waited for Bobby to bring her back, or   
to call, or do anything. We waited for three hours. We tried his house, her   
house, their cellphones: nothing. After four hours he sent out the cavalry.  
"They had packed in a hurry, taking almost nothing with them. Both their   
bank accounts had been cleaned out. We tried airports, hotels, train   
stations, but there was nothing. The van was found abandoned days later in   
Seattle; but the trail went cold. They had vanished into thin air.  
"When I got home that night her little dog, Pavlov, tied up on my front   
doorstep, with a note around his neck."  
"What did it say?" I asked.  
"It was from Bobby. It said, 'The least you can do is take care of her   
dog. Tell The Official that I'll die before I'll let them touch her'. The dog   
died eleven years ago, but I've kept that note after all these years."  
"Did you try and find them?" I asked.  
"Of course!" Eberts said. "It's been The Agency's priority investigation   
for the past eighteen years. But so far we've turned up nothing but dead ends   
and false leads. Three years after they escaped The Official retired, and   
Alex became the head of The Agency. And she's devoted all of her time and   
efforts to finding them."  
"Why does she care so much?"  
"Is she finds Claire she can replicate the gland," Eberts explained, "If   
she ever gets her hands back on Darien, she would be able to use his child   
against him. And Bobby...well, he double-crossed her. And that is one woman   
you don't want to make angry."  
"It seems strange," I said, "that with all her resources and her drive to   
find them, that she wouldn't have been able to unearth a clue to their   
whereabouts, don't you think?"   
Eberts looked away, off towards the row of houses across the street.   
"It's a funny thing," he said, "A lot can go wrong in intelligence work.   
Files can be accidentally corrupted. Papers can be shredded. Instructions can   
be misplaced; informants can be discredited." He turned and looked at me, and   
managed a weak smile.  
"That's why you've stayed all these years," I said, "even though you hate   
her. You've been sabotaging this case from the beginning."  
"It's the least I could do for them," he said. "I let them down. I should   
have defended them. I should have helped them in some way. I could have found   
out that Darien was still alive. I should have helped him."  
"If The Official told everyone that he was dead, then why did you guess   
that he was my patient?"  
"When Alex became the head of The Agency, The Official must have told her   
what really happened, that he was handed off to the SWRB. Since then she's   
been trying to find out what happened to him, in case he knows where Bobby   
and Claire are, and to see if she can have him transferred back to The   
Agency, probably to corrupt him just like they did."  
"What about you?" I asked. "Do you know where they are."  
He shrugged. "I've spent eighteen years looking," he said sadly, "and   
found nothing. Maybe they split up and went their separate ways. Maybe   
they've been holed up in some foreign country. Maybe they're dead. I don't   
know any better than you," he said, "but if you ever happen to find them, let   
me know. I have a lot of apologies to make."   
  
When my father died four years ago, he left me a large sum of money in   
his will. I supposed he wanted me to spend it on something for my own   
enjoyment; my wedding, or a house, or something that would benefit me. But as   
I grew older, the money continued to sit there accumulating interest. But   
after my interview with Eberts, I had something to use it for.  
I spent a long night lying awake in my bed, trying to decide if I should   
tell Darien all that I had learned in our discussion; my final determination   
was that there was too much risk to tell him just yet. The events that had   
transpired over the past eighteen years might have been too much for him to   
take at this point; and while the knowledge that his friends had not   
abandoned him, but had gone into hiding thinking he was dead, may have been   
of some comfort, I didn't want to give him any false hope. There was a good   
chance that they had died during the past eighteen years, leaving yet another   
open wound on Darien's heart that would never get the chance to heal.  
There was also the issue of Claire's pregnancy; his guilt over her rape   
was enough without knowing what the consequences of that liaison had been.   
And, knowing Darien, he would be overcome by guilt at the thought of not   
being able to provide for that child, and his own issues of abandonment   
involving his own father would not help matters anyway.  
Still, our conversation had inspired me to attempt the impossible; to   
track down Bobby and Claire. Certainly the odds were against me; after all,   
some of the best spies in the country had been looking for them for eighteen   
years. But I had two advantages: one, I was a good guy, and I remained   
optimistic that good would always win out in the end. And two, I had Darien   
Fawkes.  
So, after withdrawing some of the money that my father had left my, I did   
about the stupidest, most juvenile thing I could think of to try and find   
them. I started with a set of assumptions: I assumed they were both still   
alive. I assumed that they were still in contact after all these years. And I   
assumed that they still walked by the news stand from time to time.  
So I put an ad in the paper.  
Not just one paper; actually, several. I hit the big ones: Time, Newsweek,   
The New Yorker, The New York Times, and some smaller ones that I thought they   
might be interested in: Soldier of Fortune, various medical journals, etc. I   
didn't want my ad to be blatant enough that Alex Monroe would pick up on it,   
but not so obscure that, if either of them read it, they would know it was   
meant for them.  
  
"IM looking for two old friends   
who disappeared 18 years ago.   
H and C, please contact  
(555) 555-555. H.G. Wells"  
  
The ads ran for six months; I got plenty of phone calls, mostly from   
crackpots. All this time, without knowing about my little experiment, Darien   
continued to improve; he even started reminiscing about Bobby and Claire. We   
continued talking through each murder he had committed, gaining a little   
ground each day, and each night I went home to wait for a phone call that   
never came.  
I was late October, almost eight months since I had first started   
treating Darien. I was sitting on the couch, reading a novel absently when   
the telephone rang.  
"Hello?"  
There was silence on the other end. A sound of low breathing.  
"Hello?" I tried again.  
"Is this H.G. Wells?" the man on the other end of the line asked.  
"Yes," I said, suspicious.  
"An unusual name for a woman."  
"I might have chosen others," I said, "Claude Rains. Ralph Ellison.   
Vincent Ventresca."  
"Invisible men," he said, almost a whisper. "Who do you work for?"  
"I'm representing a friend of mine," I answered.  
There was a sharp intake of breath. In the silence that followed I got up   
and carried the phone into the kitchen, where my Caller I.D. sat on the   
kitchen counter. The phone number on it originated in California.  
"Who's your friend?" he asked.  
"That depends," I said, "who are you."  
"I'm a very cautious man. A man who thinks your trying to pull me into a   
trap."  
"I'm thinking the same thing," I said, "but I can promise you this; if   
your the man I hope you are, my friend is very excited to see you again."  
"Who do you think I am."  
I pulled over the Caller I.D. It said the call was coming from Texas. "I   
think that you are Bobby Hobbes," I said, "and if you are, you're doing a   
damn good job or scrambling this phone call."  
The Caller I.D. was reading a call from Indiana.  
"How do you know that name?"  
"My friend told me. He told me a lot about you."  
"Such as?"  
"He told me he once tried to kill you over a box of Donuts. He told me   
that you used to go bowling together. He told me about Arnaud, about Huclios,   
about Allianora. He told me that he thinks you lied about sleeping with a   
secret agent named Lowe; he told that you saved his life more times than he   
can count. He told me that you can make one mean calzone."  
The Caller I.D. switched again, this time to a phone number in Montana.  
"Either you're and incredibly well informed plant," he said, "or you're   
telling the truth."  
"He's alive, Bobby," I said, "he's alive and he wants to see you. Will   
you believe me?"  
"No," he said, and hung up the phone.  
I stood there for a few moments, the phone in my hand. And I started to   
cry.  
  
At one in the morning, the phone rang. "You have an upstate New York area   
code," he said, without saying hello.  
"I thought I would never here from you again."  
"Life is too short not to take risks. Can you get to Times Square by noon   
tomorrow."  
"I think so," I said. "Will you be there."  
"With bells on."  
"How will I recognize you?"  
"You won't," he said, "I'll know you. And if I so much as sense anybody   
watching you, I'll take you down."  
The phone line went dead, and I got up and got dressed.   
  
New York City. 12:01.  
For almost fifteen minutes I had been standing on a street corner,   
watching the people walking up and down Broadway. I looked all around, trying   
to find Bobby Hobbes in every face that passed, and as noon came and went I   
started to get worried that he hadn't come, or worse.  
At twelve fifteen a kid, no more that thirteen years old, came up and   
gave me an envelope.  
"A guy told me to give you this," he said.  
"What guy?" I asked.  
He turned and fled down the street, into a crowd of people.  
I opened the envelope. It was a handwritten set of directions, with a   
short note at the bottom: "Make sure no one follows you". The directions in   
one hand I set out down Broadway, towards Central Park.  
Almost half an hour later the directions had led me to an alley somewhere   
in Manhattan. As I had walked I had turned often but hadn't seen anyone   
following me, nor had I detected any signs of Bobby Hobbes. I turned down the   
alley, stepping around puddles as I went. For the first time I felt a slight   
twinge of fear.  
Too late, I heard the patter of footsteps just behind me, but before I   
could react I was being pressed into a brick wall, a hand behind my neck   
forcing my face into the grout while another pressed an object, obviously   
some sort of gun, into my ribcage.  
"Don't move," my attacker growled, "or your dead."  
The hand against my neck withdrew and began to pat me down, looking for a   
weapon that wasn't there. "Turn around," he said, pulling at my jacket.  
I turned, my back against the wall, and saw the man who had jumped me for   
the first time. Though he was probably in his late fifties, he looked to be   
in good shape for a man of his age, and though he hardly looked it, was a   
strong as a man half his age. He searched me again, meticulously, going so   
far as to run a hand under my shirt.  
"Forgive me," he said, "I wanted to see if you were wired."  
"I'm not," I said.  
"No weapons, either. What agency do you work for?"  
"CIA."  
"That's a new one," he let his gun drop, just by a fraction of an inch.   
His eyes never moved off my face.  
"I'm not an agent, I'm a doctor."  
"What kind?"  
"I'm a psychologist."  
At that he smiled, and let his gun fall to his side. "No kidding."  
"You're Bobby Hobbes," I said, taking a step away from the wall.  
"Who want's to know?"  
"Darien Fawkes," I said, watching a dark cloud pass over his face as I   
said his name.  
"Darien Fawkes has been dead for 18 years," he said. "Try again."  
"How's this," I reached into my pocket and took out a Polaroid I had   
taken before I left this morning. Darien was asleep, but you could see his   
face clearly.  
I offered it to him and he took it in one shaking hand, looking at it   
carefully before handing it back.  
"Pictures can be altered," he said, his voice shaking slightly, "faces   
can be aged."  
I reached into my purse and pulled out a tape recorder. "How about a   
voice?" I said, hitting play.  
The recording was one I had made of a session several weeks ago; Darien   
was talking, about the book he was reading, and his voice filled the alley   
with a ghostly echo.  
His face seemed unchanged, but I could tell I had him. "Voices can be   
copied," he said, "that's not even a good trick."  
"No trick," I said. "You can copy the voice, but not the way they say   
things. Listen Bobby. It's him."  
We stood there for a long time, until the tape ran out and Bobby Hobbes,   
wiping a stray tear from his eye, holstered his gun.   
"There's a coffee shop down the street," he said, his voice still shaky.   
"We should go there. We should get a cup of coffee."  
I followed him out of the alley, where the midday sun burned brighter   
than I could remember. He looked up at it, as if he had been in the darkness   
for a very long time, and we started together down the street.   
  
Bobby Hobbes didn't say a word until we had made it into the coffee shop,   
gotten our coffee, and sat down at a table in the far back corner where he   
sat, his back to the wall, watching every person that came through the door.  
"I didn't believe it," he said, "I came here, hoping, but I didn't think   
it could be true. I don't know...I don't know what to think..." I didn't say   
anything, taking a sip of my coffee instead. "I mean, eighteen years, Jesus.   
Was he at the CIA? Did you take him?"  
I shook my head. "He was taken to the SWRB, where he was used to run top   
secret hits, against his will, until about eight months ago, when he went   
Quicksilver mad and killed his keeper. Then they transferred him to us, and I   
was put on his case."  
"Why, what do you people want from him."  
"I don't know what my boss wants from him," I admitted. "I just want to   
see him get well. That's why I wanted to find you."  
"Why?" Bobby said, with great concern, "Is he sick?"  
"Physically he's fine," I said, "but he's spent the last eighteen years   
forced to kill against his will. He's been traumatized by it; he's wrought   
with guilt, not only over the people he's killed, but over what he did to   
you," I paused, "and Claire."  
"Yeah," Bobby said, and left it at that.  
"He never knew that you were told he was dead. So he spent these years   
thinking you had abandoned him. That you hadn't been able to forgive him..."  
"No!" he interrupted me. "If I had known for a second that those bastards   
had him I would have broken him loose. What he did wasn't his fault. He was   
mad, he was..."  
"I know," I said, laying a hand on his arm, "but he doesn't."  
Bobby leaned back, his eyes blinking back tears. He reached into his   
pocket and pulled out his wallet. "It took me a long time," he said, leafing   
through it, "to forgive him completely. I wanted to hate him so much. But   
here, this is why I couldn't."  
He handed me a picture, a recent one by the look of it. On the far right   
was Bobby, his arm around the waist of a woman, slightly younger than he was,   
still very beautiful despite her graying blond hair. "Claire Keeply?" I   
asked, pointing to her.  
"No," he said, shaking his head with a smile, "Claire Hobbes."  
I must have looked surprised, because he broke in with an explanation.   
"Well, not officially. I mean, we couldn't exactly waltz into a church and,   
so, I mean, it's not legal. And we go by the last name of Fox, so I   
suppose..."  
"I understand," I said, and turned back to the picture.  
Next to Claire and Hobbes was a girl, about fifteen years old, a   
beautiful brunette grinning widely despite a mouth full of braces. "My   
daughter, Rachel," he said. "She was a surprise. We didn't think we could   
risk having a kid, but then Claire got pregnant, and well, we decided, what   
the hell." His voice was full of pride.   
Next to Rachel, standing a little apart from the group, was another girl.   
At about seventeen years old, she was taller than her father, and her dark   
black hair falling around her face half-concealed the smile on her face. It   
was her eyes, though, that caught my attention.  
"That's Angela," Hobbes said. "That's our little girl. She's all grown up   
though, now."  
"Her eyes..." I said, absent-mindedly.  
"I know. She looks just like him, doesn't she?" He wiped an imaginary   
piece of dust off the picture. "And that's just the half of it. She has his   
walk, his talk. She reads the same books he does, has the same passion for   
life. She's..." he paused to find the word, "extraordinary." He paused, his   
voice falling to a whisper. "That something as good and as beautiful as her   
could have come from such a terrible day, I never would have guessed it. That   
whole first year, on the run from place to place, never stopping for more   
than a night, I kept trying to hate him, even though I knew it wasn't his   
fault. I hated him for hurting Claire, for knocking her up, for every night I   
held her at night while she cried and every time she regretted carrying his   
child, and then...  
"We were in the middle of Mexico. She was about two weeks from her due   
date, and we were on our way back to the states. But she went into labor in   
the middle of the night. We hadn't planned for it; we were too scared to go   
to the hospital. So she gave birth right there in the hotel room. I   
helped...I tried to help, anyway. I was so scared that I would lose her. And   
then it was over, and I was holding this beautiful baby girl, and just like   
that I forgave him. I couldn't help it. I forgave him completely, and I   
missed him more than ever."   
  
Darien was sitting on his bed, leafing through a magazine when I came in   
the next morning.  
"Hey doc," he said, "I got worried when you didn't show up yesterday."  
"I never meant to worry you," I said, and handed him a small sheet of   
paper that I had brought in with me.  
"What's this?" he asked, glancing at it briefly.  
"It's a day pass," I said. "I just got it approved by Davis. I thought   
you might like to take a walk today."  
"No thanks," he said, handing it back to me, "I'd rather stay inside if   
it was all the same to you."  
"You haven't been outside in almost eight months," I said, "you need some   
fresh air."  
"I get plenty of fresh air in her, thank you."  
I sat down on the edge of the bed, careful to look away from the guards   
that constantly watched him. "Darien," I said, looking into his eyes, "I   
really think you should take a walk today."  
He looked at me, raising an eyebrow. "Well, if it means that much to you,   
I guess I could go for a walk..."  
When any of our patients left their rooms, they had to be handcuffed to   
someone as a security precaution. Usually it was a guard; but since Darien   
was nonviolent, and we weren't leaving the grounds, I convinced them that I   
would do. Chained to each other we went down the back staircase and out   
through a pair of double doors into the gardens that surrounded the facility.  
At his first step outside Darien brought his hand up, to shield his face   
from the bright sunlight, and blinked, looking out at the beauty of the   
natural world.   
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I asked. He said nothing, and continued to   
looked around, taking in all that he had been missing in his months of   
complete isolation.   
We walked a ways down the gravel road and then turned off on to an   
overgrown path that twisted into the woods. A long time ago the had trained   
agents in these woods, but now they were empty, save for the few doctors who   
came here to get away from the hospital. We went a few paces down the path   
before I stopped and asked Darien to give me my hand. Then, producing the key   
to the handcuffs, I unlocked us.   
"Isn't that breaking the rules?" he asked.  
"You wouldn't run away and risk hurting someone during Quicksilver   
madness," I said, "besides, there's something I want to show you.  
He followed me down the path, into a little clearing. He stopped, just   
inside the shadows of the forest, and stood staring ahead, his face twisted   
in a look of confusion and dismay.  
Bobby Hobbes was sitting on a half-rotted log, just inside the clearing.   
When he saw Darien he stood, but remained where he was. Neither of them moved.  
Then, as if on cue, they both started forward, meeting each other at the   
edge of the clearing and throwing them into each others arms. It proved too   
much for Darien to take, and his legs buckled underneath him, taking them   
both on to the ground.   
"It's okay," Hobbes said, wiping off the tears that were running down his   
friends cheeks, "it's okay, I'm here."  
I turned away, leaving the two of them alone. I walked back down the   
path, until I found a rock and sat down. I couldn't imagine what this   
experience was like for either of them, seeing each other again after   
eighteen years of grief, regrets, and anguish. But I let them have their   
privacy.  
About two hours later I wandered back. People would begin to miss Darien   
and I if we didn't check in soon. The two of them had moved up on to the log,   
and Hobbes, one arm around his friends shoulder, was in the middle of telling   
some amusing anecdote.  
And Darien Fawkes was laughing.  
"Hey doc," he said, when he saw me walk towards him. "We were wondering   
where you got off to."  
"I thought you boys would like some time alone to get reacquainted after   
all these years," I said.  
"Yeah," Hobbes said, his voice strained. "Darien," he said, after a   
moment, "I can't believe you would have thought that I would have let them   
take you. I never would have bailed on you buddy, I had only known..."  
"Yeah, I know," Darien said. "But I didn't think...I didn't think you   
would be able to forgive me, for what I did to you."  
"Please, it takes more than a few bullets to scare off Bobby Hobbes," he   
said, punching Darien lightly on the shoulder.  
"I know, but I thought, well..." As I watched him struggle to speak it   
had occurred to me that, in the past two hours, neither of them had had the   
courage to mention the one person that was obviously on both their minds.   
"Claire," Bobby said finally.  
"Yeah," Darien said, "I mean, you loved her, and I thought..."  
"I still do," Hobbes interrupted. "Here, check it out."  
He wriggled his wedding ring off of his finger and held it out to Darien,   
who held it up to read by the fading sunlight.  
"Bobby and Claire together forever," he read, "what, did you have a   
fourth-grader engrave this?"  
Hobbes smiled, snatching it back. "Hey man, you're just jealous."  
"Seriously," Darien said, "congratulations."  
"I guess there's something about being on the run from the US government   
that lets two people fall in love," Hobbes said, slipping the ring back on   
his finger.  
"Why?" Darien asked.  
"I don't know, I guess, well, with all that adrenaline.."  
"No, I mean, why were you on the run?"  
Hobbes looked at me, and then back at Darien. He obviously hadn't gone   
into detail about where he had been over the last eighteen years.  
"It's a long story," he said.  
"Darien," I said, interrupting the inevitable follow up question, "we   
need to get back."  
"OK," he said, standing. "Hobbes does she...does she know about me?"  
"No," he said, softly. "I mean, I just learned you were alive yesterday.   
When we first read the docs add in the paper three months ago, we knew it was   
meant for us, but we thought it was a trap. She forbid me to call but...I   
couldn't help it, I had to know if, by some chance, you were still alive. But   
she still thinks that you're gone."  
"Maybe it's better that way," Darien said, softly.   
"No!" Hobbes said. "Don't say that. She'll want to see you. I know she   
will." He laid a hand on Darien's shoulder. "You don't know how many nights   
she cried herself to sleep over you."  
Darien smiled. "Maybe, I can come over some time."  
"Only if you promise not to hit on my wife," Hobbes said, smiling.   
"Well," I said, "why don't you go over tomorrow?"  
  
We got back to Darien's room just as the sun was beginning to set. When   
we were alone in his room again he turned to me, his eyes filled with tears.   
"You did all this for me," he said, "thank you."  
"I would do it for any of my patients," I said, brushing back a strand of   
his hair. "Are you going to be okay?"  
"It's just been a long day," he said. "A good day, but a long one."  
"Well, get some sleep, we have a long drive tomorrow."  
He nodded, laying back on his bed. "I'm scared..." he admitted, "I'm   
scared that she'll still hate me."  
"Don't you trust Hobbes?" I asked, sitting down next to him.  
"Yeah," he said, "but..."  
"No buts," I said. "Now get some sleep."  
  
It was almost four o'clock by the time we got there. We had been driving   
all day; Hobbes and Darien, driving ahead, and me following in my car. We   
crossed has cross the border into Pennsylvania, and eventually stopped in a   
little town where white picket fences lined the streets and a few people   
still sat on their front porches drinking coffee.  
Hobbes pulled up in front of a little white house on the corner of a tree   
lined street and stopped the car. In the front of the house, his daughter,   
Rachel, was raking leaves. She looked up when she saw his car pull up and   
leaned on the rake, watching as we piled out of the cars.   
"That's..." Darien said, watching the girl.  
"That's Rachel," Hobbes said, "my daughter."  
We walked across the street and the girl watched us closely.   
"Wow," she said, as we entered the yard, "Mom is gonna be so pissed at   
you."  
"Hey sweetie," Hobbes said, gathering her in his arms, "is that any way   
to greet your dad?"  
She gave him an embarassed kiss on the cheek. "She's really, really mad   
that you left for two days and didn't tell her."  
"Let me deal with your mom," he said. "Here, I brought some friends I   
want you to meet. This is Diane Vaughn, and this is Darien Fawkes." She shook   
our hands and then turned back to her father.  
"Where's Angela?" Hobbes asked.   
"In her room, studying. " Rachel said. "Mom's paying me five bucks to   
rake these leaves.   
"Then you better keep working he said and, giving her another kiss on the   
top of her head, lead us up the front steps and into the house.  
The front room was dark, mere shadows or furniture scattered across the   
room. A hall led towards the back of the house, where a sliver of light came   
from beneath a closed door.  
"Hey Claire, it's me." Hobbes called out.  
There was a sound, like the clattering of dishes, from behind the closed   
door and then the sound of rushed footsteps.  
"You son of a bitch!" Came a womans voice, "where the hell have you been   
for the past two days! I thought you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere! I   
could kill you for..."  
She flung open the door and, flipping on the lightswitch, came face to   
face with Darien Fawkes.  
  
There was a moment when everything stood still.   
  
And then the plate, which Claire Hobbes had been holding, fell to the   
floor. Pieces of it shatter all around her, but she didn't seem to notice.   
She was already halfway across the room and into Darien's arms.  
As she pressed against him, she was crying with such force that both   
their bodies were shaking. And then Darien started crying to, into the top of   
her head, muttering over and over again half-formed apologies and repeated   
utterances begging for forgiveness.  
She pulled back suddenly, looking up at him with a kind of wonder. "Oh   
God," she said, and wiped a tear off his cheek, "don't apologize. Don't."  
"Please," he whispered, "please don't hate me."  
"How could I hate you?" she said. "I never hated you, never."  
  
After I had stopped crying, and Hobbes had stopped crying, and Darien had   
stopped crying as much, we made our way into the kitchen. Something in the   
oven was burning; Claire, who was still crying, took it out and left it in   
the sink. Then she went and sat down with them at the kitchen table, next to   
her husband, who laid a protective hand on her thigh, and across the table   
from the father of her child. I sat a little ways back from the table, not   
wanting to intrude on this impromptu homecoming.  
"Look at us," Hobbes said, interrupting the silence that had fallen over   
them since they sat down, "we've all gotten so old."  
"You were always old," Darien said, returning his old partners smile.  
"I still love him," Claire said, leaning over to give Bobby a kiss. Then   
she looked at Darien and smiled. "I still love you, too."  
"Thank you," he replied, suddenly shy.  
"I just want to know...where, where have you been?" Claire asked. "They   
told us...they said that you were..." she started to cry again, and Bobby put   
an arm around her shoulder.  
"I was taken to the SWRB," Darien said. "I ran mission for them. I took   
out targets."  
"They made you..."  
"Yes," he interrupted her. "But I was too scared to run, even when I had   
the chance. I was too scared that, if I went Quicksilver mad, I would hurt   
someone...again."  
"This is Diane Vaughn," Bobby said, and Darien trailed off. "She was the   
one who put the add in the paper. She's his psychologist at the CIA."  
"The CIA...are you..."  
"We're just treating him," I said, reassuringly, "we aren't forcing him   
to do anything against his will."  
"Thank you," Claire mouthed to me, and then turned her attentions back to   
Darien.  
"What about you?" Darien asked. "Bobby said you were on the run. That's   
why you're living here, under a different name."  
"We've settled down now," Bobby said. "We're still cautious, but we've   
tried to make a normal live for ourselves."  
"But why?" Darien asked. "Why were you on the run?"  
In high school, I remember reading Charles Dickens, and hating how   
contrived his plots seemed. There were always those magnificent coincidences   
that dictated the plot, and made everything seem so unreal. I neglected to   
see, I suppose, that much of our life is dictated by coincidence, and that   
Dickens was perhaps not so unrealistic after all. Because at the exact moment   
that Claire was about to answer Darien's question, the kitchen door opened,   
and Angela Hobbes, or rather Fox, or actually Fawkes, I suppose, walked in.  
"What the fuck is this?" she asked, referring, I suppose, to the strange   
ensemble of crying people in the middle of her kitchen.  
"Don't swear," Hobbes said, automatically.  
"Excuse me," she said, "but who the hell are these people?"  
Claire looked at her daughter, and then back to Darien, searching for   
some way to explain exactly who he was to her daughter. It was obvious, from   
the moment that Angela walked in, that he had realized what his relation was   
to her.  
"Oh crap," he said, and walked out of the kitchen.  
Claire and I got up and followed after while Hobbes distracted Angela.   
Darien made it as far as the front door when he stopped and turned back.   
"That girl," he said, motioning to the kitchen, "she's...oh crap."  
"Darien," I said, "just wait, calm down."  
"Claire," he said, looking to her for some response.  
"That's Angela," Claire said, taking his hand. "That's our daughter."   
Darien froze on the spot, and looked back and forth from Claire, to me, to   
the kitchen door. "The Official," Claire continued, "wanted me to get an   
abortion. He wanted me to kill her. So we ran. We ran so we could save her."  
Dariens eyes were closed. For a moment, I thought that he was having a   
mental breakdown, or a stroke, but then his eyes opened again and he looked   
at Claire.  
"Is she normal?" he asked.  
Claire smiled. "She's perfect, Darien," she said. "She absolutely   
perfect. She kept our memory of you alive all those years when we thought you   
were dead. She made us a family."  
His lower lip quivered, slightly.  
"Does she know?"  
"On her sixteenth birthday," Claire said, "we told her that Bobby wasn't   
her real father, but that he loved her and he had raised her as if she was.   
And we told her about you, about what you were like and what sort of man you   
were. But we never told her..."  
"That I raped you," Darien interrupted. "That that was how she was   
conceived."  
Claire shuddered at his outburst. "That doesn't change how I feel about   
you. And it doesn't change the fact that she's my daughter, and that I love   
her more than anything in the world. And I don't love her despite the fact   
that she's your daughter, we love her because she's your daughter."  
"I should have been here..." Darien started to say, but Claire stopped   
him.   
"You're here now," she said, "that's what matters."  
The kitchen door opened. Angela was standing in the doorway, and Bobby   
was standing just behind her, a hand on her shoulder. She looked straight   
past me and Claire at Darien, her eyes wide.  
"Hi," she said, softly.  
"Hi," he said.  
She looked down at her feet, and then to Claire. "Dad said, Dad said that   
you're...well...my dad."  
"Yeah," Darien said, hyperventilating slightly.  
"They told me you were dead."  
"I'm not," he said.   
"Yeah," she said, "I can see that."  
"Why don't we go and sit down, and we can talk about this," Claire said,   
taking Darien by the hand. "You two can get to know each other."  
I watched the kitchen door shut behind them. Whatever went on behind that   
door, between those three parents and their child, was none of my business.   
As I was standing there, trying to imagine what was happening in the next   
room, the front door opened.  
"I'm not getting any dinner tonight, am I?" Rachel was standing in the   
doorway, still holding the rake.  
"Tell you what," I said, "I'll take you out for some pizza."  
"I should tell my parents," she said.  
"It's okay, their kind of busy," I said.  
We started down the front steps together.  
"That guy you came with, is he Angelas dad?"  
"Yeah," I said, "how did you know?"  
She shrugged. "They look a lot alike. I'm not supposed to know that we   
have different dads, but I overheard them talking to her."  
"Does that bother you?"  
"No," she said, "should it?"  
"I guess not," I admitted.  
"Are you like, his wife or something?"  
"Not really," I said. "It's kind of hard to explain."  
  
When Rachel and I came back some forty minutes later, with two pizzas in   
tow, Claire was sitting on the front porch.  
"I didn't think you'd feel like cooking tonight," I explained. "Here,   
Rachel, why don't you take these inside."  
"Thank you," Claire said, smiling, as her daughter went inside. She   
turned back and looked at me. "Thank you for everything."  
"I'm just doing my job," I said. "So, what did you tell her?"  
"We told her that Darien and I had worked together. That we had been   
engaged and then he had been transferred and hadn't known I had been   
pregnant."  
"She seems like a smart girl," I said, "do you think she'll believe that?"  
"Probably not. But I don't think she would have believed the truth   
either," she smiled. "They don't know about who Bobby and I were, about the   
agency. To them we're just two boring parents like everyone has. How could we   
explain all of this to them?"  
"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe someday you can."  
"Yes," she said, "someday."  
"How is Darien doing?"  
"He seems all right," she said, "surprised, but all right. Actually there   
was something I wanted to ask you about. I thought maybe I should tell you   
about it before I told Darien but..well, I don't know..."  
"What is it?" I asked.  
"Maybe I should show you," she said.  
She led me around the back of the house and in through a back door that   
led into a small basement. The windows were all reinforced by bars and hung   
with thick curtains, to block out any light. She closed the door behind us   
and then turned on the lights.  
The tiny room was filled with computer equipment, some of it nearly   
twenty years old, and molding files. "All of the Quicksilver Files," she   
explained. "I destroyed most of them before I left, but I took what I could.   
Even though I thought Darien was dead I couldn't help but keep looking over   
them. Eighteen years. Eighteen years continuing to test, continuing to run   
lab simulations with what little data I had."  
"You couldn't let him go," I observed.  
"I guess I couldn't," she said. "Here, I want you to see this." She   
turned on a computer screen and opened a file.   
"I'll be honest," I said, "I had no idea what that is."  
"It's a mockup of the gland," she said, "an old one, but probably still   
accurate. Over the years I used this to try and simulate several different   
ways to remove it. But," she said, "I've come to the conclusion that the   
gland is to far entrenched to be removed."  
"I wouldn't tell Darien that," I said.   
"That isn't what I wanted to show you," she said, and opened a new file.   
"The Quicksilver madness was not a normal part of the gland; it was built   
into Darien's version of the gland by a rogue scientist named Arnaud du   
Thiel. Now, while Darien was working for The Agency, he was able to recover   
the original blueprints to the gland. At first I didn't they would be any use   
to removing it, but on a hunch I contracted a model of what the gland should   
have looked like before it was sabotaged by Arnaud."  
"And you found..."  
"And I found the difference between the two glands. There are several   
structures present in the altered gland that I believe serve as filters for   
the Quicksilver, changing it's chemical composition so that it can't be   
naturally broken down by the body, so that when it builds up it causes   
Quicksilver madness."  
"Okay, can you explain that again, slowly?"  
"I can't remove the gland," Claire said, "but I think I may be able to   
change it so that the Quicksilver is naturally absorbed, and no longer builds   
up to toxic levels."  
"You can cure Quicksilver madness?"  
"If I had an operating room and the necessary equipment. I haven't   
operated in over eighteen years but," she paused, "I think I can."  
"You haven't told Darien this?"  
She shook he head. "I'm not even sure if he would want this. If I operate   
on the gland, it will eliminate any possibility of removing it entirely.   
Besides, I would still need equipment, an assistant. There are so many   
problems..."  
"Okay," I said. "Does Bobby know."  
She shook her head. "I didn't tell him," she said, "I thought it would   
make him even more depressed, knowing that Darien could have been helped if   
only he was still alive."  
"I have to have Darien back at the facility pretty soon. After we leave,   
tell Bobby everything you told me, and then tell him to drive back to the   
hospital."  
"Why?" she asked.   
"I think," I said, "I know how we can do this."  
  
It was three o'clock in the morning when Darien and I got back to the   
hospital. I had put the handcuffs back on as we drove up; the guards that   
watched Darien's room unhooked us when we got back inside and locked him back   
in his room.  
"You're supposed to have all patients in by nine," one of them said.  
"Sorry," I said, and then by way of explanation added, "car trouble."  
I went upstairs to my office and I made a few phone calls.  
  
Darien was still awake when I went downstairs. I watched him from the   
observation room for a few moments before I went inside.  
"Are you all right?" one of the guards asked.   
"It was a tough night for him," I said. "I think he's gotten much better."  
"That's good," the other guy said.  
"Hey, you guys look like crap. Why don't you run and get some coffee?" I   
suggested.  
They looked back and forth. "One of us is supposed to be here at all   
times," one of them explained.  
"Fine. But it's not like this guy is dangerous or anything."  
"Okay, we'll be right back. But take the tranquilizer gun just in case he   
tries anything."  
"Okay," I said, "I'll be careful."  
Darien looked up from his book when I came in.  
"Hey," he said.  
"Hey, how are you doing?"  
"Okay," he said, and smiled, "it's been a good day." He looked up pointed   
behind me. "Hey doc, you left the door open."  
"Why, so I did."  
"That's not a good idea. One of you patients could escape if you did   
that."  
"There are security camera all over the building," I said, "they wouldn't   
be able to escape unless they could turn invisible."  
Darien smiled. "You sound like you're making a proposition, doc."  
"Maybe I am," I reached into my pocket and pulled out two vials of   
counteragent. "Bobby's waiting for you outside on the main drive."  
"No way," he said, standing up, "I can't leave, not without counteragent.   
I'll go Quicksilver mad, I could..."  
"I've booked three planes tickets to San Diego," I said. "Eberts is going   
to meet you there at the airport and take you to a small, private research   
lab outside the city."  
"Eberts?" Darien said.  
"My sister works there," I continued. "She's agreed to help Claire   
operate on the gland."  
"What?" His eyes widened. "Claire, she's going to..."  
"She found a way to alter the gland so that you would no longer go   
Quicksilver mad," I said.   
"Oh," he said, and then softly, "Why would I want to do that?"  
"Then you won't be a danger to anyone else ever again," I said, "after   
that, you can live a normal life...well, as normal a life as can be expected,   
for a man that can turn invisible."  
He shook his head. "Where would I go?"  
"Home," I said.  
"I don't have a home."  
"Yes," I said, "you do. You have two friends who love you very much and a   
daughter who wants to learn about who you are. They're your family, Darien.   
They want you to come home to them."  
Darien started to cry. He reached out, and let his hand touch my   
shoulder. "Why are you doing all this for me," he asked, "why have you gone   
to so much trouble over me?"  
"Because," I said, "you're a good man. Maybe the best man I've ever met.   
And you deserve to be happy."  
"There has to be more," he said, wiping a tear from his eye "maybe I'm   
cynical, but I can't believe you would be doing all this out of the goodness   
of your heart."  
I smiled. "I guess, you could say there was. You see, my dad, he was,   
well, he was a strange guy. He and my mother divorced when I was little and I   
never saw much of him. Everything about him was a mystery to me. Even when he   
came to live with me, after he got sick, he would never talk about his job.   
He said he had too many regrets.  
"He always told me that everything happened for a reason; and when I   
started treating you eight months ago, I wondered about the reason that you   
had been given to me. I'm not the best doctor in the CIA; I'm not even the   
best doctor here. So I started to wonder.  
Then, when Alex Monroe and Eberts came and questioned me, something   
clicked. I remembered their names, but I couldn't remember where. It was only   
a few months ago that I realized where I knew them from."  
I reached into my purse and pulled out a large leather ledger, with the   
words 'In Loving Memory' across the front.  
"It's the guest book from my father's funeral," I said, "they were both   
there."  
Darien opened the first page and then stopped, his eyes wide, and then   
looked at me in shock.  
"You're name..." he said, "but I thought..."  
"I took my mothers name," I explained, "the name 'Borden' always made me   
think of 'Lizzie Borden took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks..."  
"You're The Official's daughter?"  
"Yeah," I said. "When I went through my father's papers, I found a copy   
of a memo that he had sent to the SWRB a few weeks before he died. He was   
trying to pull strings, trying to get you transferred to my care. When you   
were taken away from the SWRB four years later, someone must have seen that   
memo."  
"Jesus," Darien said.  
"I know," I said, laughing. "It's like a bad movie, isn't it. But if you   
don't go soon, you're not going to make it is time for the happy ending."  
"Wait," he said, "what about you? When they find out that you let me   
go..."  
"I didn't let you go," I said, softly. I handed him the tranquilizer gun.   
"We fought, you wrestled this out of my hand, shot me, and then disappeared."   
Darien flinched as he held to gun, memories of all the people he had hurt   
flashing back to him. "Go on," I said, "Bobby's waiting."  
The dart imbedded itself in the side of my neck, with no more pain that   
the stinging of a misquito. Darien gave a rueful smile and then stood in the   
doorway for a moment, and he disappeared.  
I can still hear his footsteps down the hallway; but now I'm beginning to   
feel tired. Let me lay down for a little while. The guards will come back   
soon and find me; they'll raise the alarm, but Darien will be gone. In a few   
days he'll be recovering from surgery, free from the nightmare of Quicksilver   
madness, which brought him so much pain over the last eighteen years. Then he   
and Claire and Bobby can go home to raise their daughters; they'll figure it   
out, I'm sure. Even if they have to hide for the rest of their lives, they'll   
always have each other.  
I'll probably be fired; I'll probably be sent to jail. Alex Monroe will   
probably hunt me down and kill me with her bare hands. But right now I don't   
care. I'm tired. I want to go to sleep. And I think that maybe, up in heaven,   
my father's proud of what I've done.  
  
Fin 


End file.
